


Next to the Pub at the corner

by theGirlwiththebrokenSmile



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Established John/Paul, George is a good friend, George's perspective, John is protective, M/M, Paul gets hurt, They're in the Netherlands, This isn't supposed to be historically acurate, set around 1963
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25804519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theGirlwiththebrokenSmile/pseuds/theGirlwiththebrokenSmile
Summary: //The Pubs are filled with music and the apple-cider is cheap and it's a rather calm night, until it's not.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 22
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

.

.

The thing is, George doesn’t even know how exactly they got into that situation. They just kinda slithered into it, really.

What he _does_ know is, that they’re in the Netherlands and that they hung out in that one Pub-street for the last nights, getting plastered, joking around, having a pretty good time with the Dutch people. George loves them, he decides. They’re happy people, tall and blond and loud and probably high on some kind of legal drugs.

There are some press conferences in between, and the planning of a film, but overall they have unusually much free-time. The weather is nice too, warm but not too hot, the sun breakfast-coloured at any hour of the day. The light blue sky is always hidden by soft clouds, looking like candy floss, before the night washes them away. 

The four boys especially came to love that one blue-coloured Pub at the corner, and the one right next to it, _De Druit_ , with the live bands playing there every night. They’re doing rock ‘n roll, not professionally, not as good as them, of course, but most of them seem well-known by the locals and the atmosphere is always great.

Tonight, it’s just George and Paul. Brian wanted to go over a scene with John and Ringo, discussing some ‘important details’, and the younger ones quickly snug out, before their manager found something to discuss with them as well.

They walked through some smaller streets, laughing about something, trying not to stumble over the cobble stones. They went to a small bar that served very strange-tasting cocktails, before they decided to go back to one of their favourite Pubs. They’ve been here for a few hours now, mainly talking and drinking cold apple-cider. It's cheaper than back home and they’re both a little tipsy but nowhere near drunk. Overall, it’s a rather calm night. 

They’re sharing a sticky bar table with three guys from one of the live bands. They met them yesterday and they're from England as well and George can’t, for the life of him, remember their names. They’re all fun and easy-going, except one of them – the one with the dark beard, who's silent most of the time and seems to be having a serious problem with John. He rolls his eyes whenever his name is mentioned, complaining about the way John patronised him yesterday, ‘treating him like shit’, apparently.

Huh. George doesn’t remember that and judging the way Paul furrows his eyebrows in confusion neither does he.

The others just laugh good-natured, brushing him off, but after a while they leave to get more drinks, and suddenly George and Paul are alone with the guy. He’s giving off some weird vibes. George can’t really explain it, but it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, like a cat’s.

He tosses Paul a quick glance; the other boy’s leaning against the table next to him, his long eyelashes catching the dim light. He's holding his half-full glass in his hands, seeming lost in thought at the moment. It's not as loud right now, with the band that was playing just now taking a quick break. Voices and smoke are filling the air. George looks back over to the guy with the beard, across from them. He watches as he takes a huge gulp of his beer, drumming his fingers on the table. He doesn’t say anything anymore and George starts to relax when –

“Lennon thinks he’s above us all, doesn’t he?”, the guy suddenly says, laughing deeply, too loud. Jesus. He must be pretty drunk. 

George opens his mouth and closes it, while Paul next to him is pressing his lips together to a thin line. And okay, this isn’t what they imagined their evening to go like. Like, at all. The suggestion to go somewhere else is on the tip of his tongue, when the guy continues his rant.

“He’s above you”, he says, pointing directly at George, which feels like a punch to the gut somehow. “Above yer manager too – hell, he’s above his own _mother._ ”

Paul looks up at that, something cold flashing in his eyes. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you.”

The guy laughs again, looking pleased at that reaction. He steps around the table clumsily, closer to Paul. “Now, now. Didn’t say he’s above _you_ , princess. Did I?”

Paul bristles at the nickname. George knows that John _does_ call him princess sometimes, he’s heard it being whispered in the dark, honey-sweet against pale skin. It was incredibly endearing (and totally gross), but out of anyone else’s mouth it sounds like mockery.

“Don’t call him that”, he says, wishing his voice wouldn’t crack. The guy’s not even looking at him though. He’s leaning in closer to Paul instead, who takes a step back automatically, a crinkle between his eyebrows. 

"C'mon, George, let's just go", he says. Before he can take another step though, the guy grabs his right wrist harshly, yanking him back towards him. 

“Hey, hey, _princess_ , I wasn't done talking to you”, he sneers.

There's a second passing by, in which George stares at the ugly smirk on the guy's lips and thinks of smacking it right off his face – but then that’s not necessary. Paul lifts his left fists so fast the movement’s blurry.

The guy is seemingly surprised by the punch, coming from the right, and he staggers back a few steps, holding his nose. There’s a blood stain on his chin and his eyes are wide and angry. They’re a weird colour, dark-grey. He doesn’t hesitate. He jumps forward, grabs Paul’s collar and punches him back with full force.

Time slows down suddenly, dripping to the ground like thick syrup. All the background-noises blend together, like someone dipped them under water. 

The guy is wearing a ring, a part of George’s mind realizes, slowly. There are muscles jumping under the taunt skin of his biceps and he probably beats up much bigger guys every night, with that attitude, almost like he’s asking for fights. The last time Paul had a physical fight was years ago, with Stu, a scrawny art student. George knows he needs to bloody _do_ something, but he's completely frozen in place. 

Paul would’ve probably lost his balance at that hit, but the guy holds him upright at his collar and punches him again, right after. The sound it makes when his fist meets Paul’s face a second time goes straight to George’s gut, like the words he said earlier. Somehow it hurts even more, making his stomach lurch.

“ _Stop_ ”, he hears himself yell at the sight of the blood that’s on Paul’s face, spilling out of a cut high on his cheek. The guy lifts his hand again und George completely panics, but then the other two are back, ripping them apart. One of them, tall, red hair, dropped his glass, spilling dark Guinness all over the floor. He looks absolutely horrified, grabbing beard-guy’s shoulders, shaking him. 

“What the _fuck_ , man?”, he screams, sounding almost as panicked as George feels. “You can’t hit _Paul._ “

He says it like it’s some golden rule, some unwritten law, and maybe it is.

“I don’t _care_ , Will, he started it.” The beard-guy wipes at his nose carelessly and curses. “And ’m not afraid of Lennon.”

“Well, you fucking should be. _Shit._ ” The redhead turns around to Paul, who’s just standing there unsteady, clutching the edge of the table, looking like a deer in the headlight. His dark eyes huge and slightly unfocused. The blood on his pretty face looks horrifying and George prays it isn’t as bad as it looks. “Are you okay? Can I help –“

“I got it”, George interrupts, grabbing Paul’s wrist. He can feel him shaking under his fingers. “Thanks for stopping him.”

“Of course! I’m sorry – that won’t happen again, I _swear_.”

“No it won’t”, George agrees coolly, before pulling Paul away. They turn to the left and walk through the small corridor leading to the bathrooms. The noises are quieter here, voices and music further away.

“Jesus, what a jerk”, George murmurs, before he opens the door to the loos, ushering Paul inside. Luckily, they’re alone. He turns to look at Paul and winces. The blood looks even worse in the bright lights in here, stark red on his pale face. It’s on his neck now too, dripping on his collar. His eyes are still wide, his pupils blown. He’s swaying on his feet. 

“Paul?”, George asks, trying to sound comforting instead of freaked-out. “Are you –“ 

Paul swallows loudly. “I don’t feel so good.”

He looks like he’s seconds away from throwing up or fainting, so George quickly grabs him by his arms and pulls into one of the stalls. Paul sinks to his knees and starts reaching almost immediately. George breaths through his mouth while Paul throws up his dinner, dry-heaving after. He flushes the toilet with shaking hands and wipes his mouth. He’s white as a sheet as he leans back against the wall.

George quickly grabs some toilet paper and kneels down as well to press it to the cut that still hasn’t stop bleeding. Paul flinches.

“I – I’m dizzy”, he murmurs, his voice a slur.

“Dizzy?”

“There – there are weird lights around yer head.”

Paul blinks, his eyes still unfocused and George feels a wave of worry wash through him. He thinks of the hard punches, the horrible noise. Maybe Paul has a concussion, maybe he broke his cheekbone – can that even happen? What is he supposed to _do?_ They can never walk back to the hotel like this, Paul probably can’t even stand back up. George keeps breathing through his mouth, trying to stay calm, not to panic. He can’t panic now. He can’t. 

“I – stay here, okay? Keep that on the cut, don’t move! Try to stay awake. I’m gonna call someone.”

Paul grabs the toilet paper and looks up at him, almost pleadingly. “John?”

“Yes”, George says immediately. “I’m gonna call John.”

He runs out of the bathroom, down the corridor to the telephone he saw on the wall earlier. His hands are shaking as he pulls out some coins and calls the hotel. Throwing a glance over his shoulder he looks towards the busier part of the Pub, while a loud beeping sound fills his ear. His eyes swipe over the tables, the bar. He can’t see the three guys anywhere, which hopefully means they left.

He turns back around after a moment, clutching the telephone tightly.

“This is George Harrison, I need to speak to John Lennon, suit 23”, he says hurriedly as soon as someone answers.

“One moment please.”

He waits, his heart in his throat. The smell of cheap beer and his own sweat are filling his nose. There is blood on his fingertips.

“’elo?”, John says after two minutes, sounding bored. There’s rustling in the background and Ringo’s voice, far away.

“I – it’s me, George”, he says stupidly, suddenly not sure what he wants to say at all. John is gonna _kill_ him if he tells him what happened and that he just stood there and let that guy beat up Paul without _doing_ anything. His heart beats even faster. There is a wave of heat rushing through him. 

“Yeah, they said. What is it?”

“I – we’re still out, at the one of the Pubs. Paul and me.”

“Mhm.” There is the klick of a lighter. an intake of breath. “You havin’ fun?”

George swallows hard. “No.”

An amused snort. “Why not? Miss me?”

“I – yeah. I mean, you should come. You should come here, now.”

He has no idea what he is saying. He needs to _tell_ him but the words are blurry and there is bile rising in his throat.

John sighs. “Is that why ya called? I can’t, we’re not finished yet. Brian’s an annoying little shit. So is Ringo.”

 _Oi_ , someone yells in the background. Someone else is laughing. 

“Just come back here if yer bored. Is Paul with ya right now? Can I -”

“No. I mean, uh, no, he’s in the bathroom.” George swallows once, twice. “He’s bleeding.”

“What?” There is a beat of silence and when John speaks again his voice is entirely different. There’s a sharp edge to it now, an urgency. “What the hell are you talking about? Did something happen? Is he hurt?”

“Yes”, George says, relieved that he finally reached the point and absolutely terrified at the same time. “He’s hurt –“

“What _happened_ , George?”, John demands, his voice sounding like a growl. “ _Tell me_.”

“This guy – there was this guy. He punched him in the face and h-he looked like a boxer or something and there’s a cut on Paul’s cheek and he was throwing up and I don’t know what –“

“Where are you?” John interrupts, voice shaking with barely-contained anger, sharp as a knife. It chills George to the bones. “What’s the name of the pub?”

“ _De Druit_. I –“

The line goes dead. George blinks, perplex. The beeping rings in his hear, strangely loud.

“Hurry?”, he adds, more to himself, but it doesn’t seem like it was necessary to tell John that. George sighs, then he hangs up the phone and jogs back to the toilets. Behind him, he hears the band re-enter the stage amid the applause of the crowd. 

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

.

Paul is still sitting where George left him, clutching the soaked toilet paper to the side of his face. He’s still pale and his nose is all scrunched up now – he’s probably staring to feel the pain. George sits down across from him and pulls his knees to his chest.

“John is coming here”, he says and Paul looks relieved.

“’m dizzy”, he repeats his earlier words, his voice a soft murmur. “What –“

“Okay, wait a second.” George moves over, so he’s sitting next to Paul, pulling the other boy’s head down on his shoulder softly. “Here – but try ta stay awake, okay?”

“Mkay.”

“John will be here very soon. And then we’ll bring ya back to the hotel. There’s a Doctor in the house, y’know? Brian can call him, so he can check on ya. Yeah?”

Paul is silent, so George nudges him softly, leaning closer to the black hair touching his neck. “Paulie?”

“Hmm?”

“You awake?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

George is not sure how long they’re sitting like that but it can’t be very long. He’s breathing deeply through his nose the entire time, counting his heartbeats, tapping his fingers on the dirty tiles under his legs. He moves his shoulder softly after a bit, asking Paul if he’s still awake, receiving a small nod in return.

When the door to the loos opens, they both lift their heads, Paul wincing slightly at the sudden movement. John strides over to them, clad in his black coat, a stormy expression on his face. George quickly scrambles to his feet, out of the way. The older boy is not even looking at him, too focused on Paul. He kneels down in front of him, reaching out his hands. There’s something incredibly soft entering in his face suddenly, an expression he only ever gets when Paul’s sleepy or sick. 

“Hey”, he mumbles, carefully grabbing the soaked toilet paper on Paul’s cheek. “Let me have a look at that, angel, please?”

Paul nods, letting John remove the paper so he can take a look at the cut. He looks up at him with huge hazel-eyes, not saying anything, too busy biting his lip. He looks like he’s trying not to flinch, but does anyway when John’s fingers ghost over the side of his face. 

There’s a second of silence, a muscle jumping at John’s jaw. “What does he look like?”

George immediately shakes his head, recognising that tone of voice.

“John, _no_ ”, he says, as stern as he can muster. “You’re _not_ going back in there to beat that guy up – ‘m not even sure he’s still here. And Paul needs you now. We have to bring him to the hotel, have someone check on him.”

John grinds his teeth together, seemingly trying to control himself and the rage he’s probably feeling right now.

“Johnny”, Paul whispers finally, reaching out for him. The knuckles on his left hand are bloody as well, George notices. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be fine, promise. Please stay here.”

John breaths deeply through his nose, before he leans forward and grabs Paul’s hand in his. He lifts it to his mouth, brushing kisses over the bloody knuckles so tenderly, George has to look away. In his peripheral vision he sees him cradling Paul to his chest gently, before lifting him up in his arms like a bird. Paul clings to his shoulders willingly, which is just proof of how affected he must by the recent events.

George blinks. “You can’t carry him out like that, John.”

It doesn’t matter that it’s probably the sweetest thing he’s ever seen – there are people out there who’d probably think different about it. John hesitates. It doesn’t look like he wants to let go of Paul ever again, but eventually he sets him to his feet carefully and crouches down in front of him.

“Alright, hop on”, he says and after a second Paul climbs on his back, wrapping his arms around his neck. John stands up and grabs his knees to hoist him up a bit.

George decides that this is acceptable enough – people will probably think they’re two mates messing around or that Paul’s too drunk to walk – so he opens the bathroom door and motions John to follow him. 

They leave the pub and walk down the street slowly. The air is cold on their faces and George shivers a bit. He can hear people yelling in the distance but compared to the pub it’s very quiet.

John keeps asking Paul if he’s tired, dizzy, if he should stop, but Paul just shakes his head every time and nuzzles his neck. George looks over at him a few times, worried, but doesn’t say anything.

It takes a while till they’re at the hotel and George breaths out a sigh of relief when they step in the lobby. The receptions gasps when she sees them, walking towards them.

“Did something happen?”

“Get Brian Eppstein, suit 20”, John tells her in a clipped tone. He sets Paul down and they usher him over to an armchair so he can sit. He’s still pale and looks dead tired and there is still some blood drying on his face. John leans down to him, like he can’t bear any space between them, and brushes kisses against his dark hair.

George bites the inside of his cheek and looks around to check if somebody is watching them, but nobody’s here. The receptionist left, probably to get Brian, like asked. He looks back to his friends, feeling like an intruder.

“What are you _doing?_ ”, John whispers softly in Paul’s hair. “You can’t pick fights without me there. It’s not allowed.”

Paul chuckles weakly, clutching John’s arm. “Had to. He was a jerk.”

“What did he do then?”

“He – I don’t know.” Paul blinks a few times, like the memory is fuzzy. “He started to slag you, saying how you’re above everybody. Above your own mother.”

John furrows his brows at the words, his lips pressed to a thin line.

Paul seemingly hesitates, blinking again. “And I told him to shut up and he – I don’t _know,_ he called me _princess_ and yanked me towards him and he really wanted to start a fight, I guess, and I hit him. Which was maybe not the smartest decision. He hit me back, twice, and then his pals came over and pulled him away.”

George feels relieved that Paul can remember everything – John on the other hand doesn’t look relieved at all. He’s gritting his teeth now, his whole body shaking with barely-restrained rage. His eyes cut over to George, dark, almost black. “Tell me what he looked like.”

George swallows under his gaze, giving in. “He had brown hair, a beard. He was in one of the groups from the gig yesterday, together with that redhead, remember? They’ll probably be in the pub at the corner again the next days.”

“He better not cross my path”, John mumbles darkly. Paul starts stroking his arm soothingly but doesn’t say anything. George looks away again. 

In the next half hour, Brian comes downstairs, freaks out a bit when he sees Paul and calls the house doctor to take a look at the cut. The doctor is an elderly man with a deep, calm voice. He cleans Paul’s face and exanimates his cheekbone that’s starting to turn blue. He smears some healing ointment on the cut, while John watches him like hawk, hovering protectively.

“The cut doesn’t need stiches”, the doctor finally says, putting a white plaster on it. He sounds calm, not seeming too bothered by John. “And luckily your cheekbone isn’t fractured, just bruised. It’ll look much worse tomorrow. I’m more worried about the dizziness you’re feeling, to be honest. Did you fall and hit your head?”

“No.”

“Did you get hit against the temple?”

Paul blinks slowly. “’m not sure – yeah? The second time I think.”

“Do you feel nauseous?”

Paul nods and winces and George quickly chimes in. “He threw up right after. Said he was seeing weird lights.”

The doctor hums, then pulls out a tiny torch to shine it in Paul’s eyes. He holds up a finger and moves it around, telling Paul to follow it with his eyes.

John furrows his eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

“Checking if he has a concussion – he does, for the record, but only a mild one”, the doctor explains and turns off the light. “I don’t think it’s too serious, but someone should wake him up every few hours tonight to make sure. Ask him what his name is and today’s date. And it’s normal for you to be a bit queasy, Paul, and throw up again but if it gets worse, someone should call me.”

Brian nods. “Alright, thank you –”

“What about medication?”, John interrupts. He must sound incredibly rude to anyone who doesn’t know him and that tone of voice – and that it means he’s sick with worry. “He’s in pain.”

The doctor just nods calmly and searches for a small box with pills. “You can take two tonight and two in the morning.”

John takes the box, while Paul nods slightly. Brian is furrowing his eyebrows next to them – probably thinking about the press conference tomorrow and if they should reschedule, with Paul’s pretty face looking like that and ‘much worse tomorrow’. George just sighs. He can’t think about any of that right now – he’s just glad it’s over and nothing worse happened.

He’s pretty glad when the doctor says his goodbyes and the decision is made to go upstairs to their rooms. They take the lift closest to them, Brian pressing the number of the right floor, as soon as they’re inside. The wooden doors close in front of them with a soft whooshing-sound.

George leans back a bit, squished against a corner, next to their manager. His fingers are clutching the wooden hand-rail, his palms still sweaty. John has Paul wrapped up in his arms, the younger boy looking like he might fall asleep any moment.

“You booked the whole floor, right?”, John says to Brian. “Please, can I carry him?”

Brian sighs, but nods his head, looking Paul over worriedly. “Sure.”

John sighs too, sounding almost relieved. George watches from his peripheral vision how he grips Paul’s sides and hauls him into his arms, Paul jumping up a bit, wrapping his long legs around John’s waist. He hides his face in the older boy's neck instantly, not saying a word. 

George has to bite his upper lip harshly because _Jeez_ , that's cute.

A minute later, the lift stops with a _ping_. They exit and Brian walks to the left part of the floor, wishing them good night with one last worried glance. George follows John to his and Paul’s room, holding the door open for them. He hovers near the wardrobe awkwardly, watching as John lays Paul down on the bed carefully. The younger boy has his eyes closed now, long lashes brushing against his cheekbones, seemingly asleep.

John undresses him slowly, pulling his shoes off first, before opening his belt.

George takes a step closer hesitantly. “Can I help?”

John looks up at him, almost looking surprised, like he thought George already left.

“No”, he says, curling a hand around Paul’s knee, somewhat possessively. George tries not to feel offended at that. He _knows_ how John gets. And it's been a long night, for all of them, 

After a while, John sits down next to Paul, pulling the blanket around him. He’s still cladded in his shirt and dark trousers, making no move to get ready for bed. His auburn-coloured hair is a bit touseld from the wind outside. 

George bites the inside of his cheek. “You won’t stay up all night, will ya?”

John doesn’t even look at him. “’m supposed to wake him every few hours, right?”

“Well yeah, but –“ He trails off. “I’ll take yer place halfway through the night, okay? So ye can sleep for a bit. Just come wake me.”

John nods, still not looking up. George sighs, deciding it makes no sense to wait around longer or try to talk to John right now. So, he whispers a _good night_ after another minute and leavs their room. He closes the door softly and walks over to his and Ringo’s room. The thick carpet swallows his steps.

He unlocks the door and slips inside to see that the other boy’s still awake as well, looking up with wide blue eyes.

“What happened?”, he asks. “Is Paul okay? Nobody told me anything, John juts ran off –”

George walks over to his bed and falls down on it, burying his head in the pillow with a loud groan. It smells nice, like cotton and his shampoo. His head feels heavy and he’s bloody exhausted but he still retells the story, with all the details. When he finally looks up, Ringo’s eyes are even wider than before. He looks more shocked than anything.

“Well, ‘m glad Paul is gonna be alright – but Jesus, is there any way we can keep John from killing that guy during the next days?”

“Dunno, don’t care”, George mumbles rolling around to blink at the ceiling. The light dances across it, forming weirdly-shaped shadows. “Might even help him.”

Ringo snorts, but he doesn’t sound amused.

George blinks a few times, watching the light. He manages to get back up after a bit, to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. It feels like ages till he peeled himself out of his cloths and is finally ready for bed. He’s completely exhausted and Ringo agrees to turn off the light and sleep. It’s late enough anyways.

It’s cool in the room, and quiet. Silvery light falls through the curtains.

In George’s dream he’s dangling from the edge of a swimming pool, clutching the wet tiles, trying to lick at the candyfloss clouds.

John doesn’t come to wake him that night.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it xx
> 
> If you have any wishes/requests, just tell me <3


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